


Making Dreams a Reality

by commanderlurker (honeybee592)



Series: OTP: You're the boss [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12082521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/pseuds/commanderlurker
Summary: Grace has a sex dream and isn't all that comfortable with it. She tells Bull about it and he sets to making her feel better about what her brain conjures up.





	Making Dreams a Reality

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a confession: "I want The Iron Bull sitting on the inquisition throne, my inquisitor sitting on his lap totally naked and riding him wildly, facing all those pompous Orlesians while they are watching them."  
> [post here](http://dirtybiowareconfessions.tumblr.com/post/163229527945/confession-i-want-the-iron-bull-sitting-on-the)
> 
> I could see this happening to Grace, and her waking up thinking, "oh Maker, what is wrong with me." (Nothing's wrong with you Grace. It's a great idea. Trust me.)

Graces wakes with that icky feeling at just what her brain was capable of conjuring in the middle of the night. She scrubs her face with water hotter than necessary, really lathering on the soap. She can’t look at herself in the mirror as she pats her face dry and she certainly can’t look at her own body as she dresses. The stickiness between her legs is an embarrassment and not Bull’s doing for once. When she gets downstairs, she studiously avoids looking at the sun-burst Inquisition throne, turning her head instead and rushing through the great hall to get to the dining hall. Bull’s already there, almost done by the looks of it. He spots her and returns her wave with a smile and dip of the head. She dodges the other diners, scooting out of the way of the servants as they bring piping hot bowls to the table or clear dirty dishes. She slips in beside Bull and gives him a nudge.

“Morning, Kadan,” he says. “You’re looking… pink?”

Grace blushes and pats her cheeks. “Just washed my face is all.”

A servant comes and takes her order then scurries away.

“I had a dream last night,” she says, low enough so no one near them can hear. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Hmm. Maybe you should talk to Solas. You know what he’s like with dreams.”

Grace looks at Bull but can’t quite tell if he’s joking. Honestly it’s too early in the morning for jokes like that. She squirms and just says it. “It was a sexy dream.”

Bull raises his eyebrow and leans down, lips so close to her ear that she feels the puff of hot breath when he speaks. “Tell me.”

She shifts, about to elaborate when her porridge and tea arrives. She thanks the servant and picks up her spoon. “After breakfast.”

*

They stand at the battlements, there on the pretense of examining the restored crenelations. They are quite wonderful, Grace has to admit. But her mind isn’t quite in the right place to truly appreciate such excellent stonework.

“It was one of those dreams where you wake up and feel quite dirty for having it,” she says. “I don’t know what to make of it because it wasn’t my kind of thing at all. Quite the opposite! I just--ergh.” She shudders.

Bull puts his hand around her shoulder and pulls her in. “Tell me what you remember, even the bits that made you feel uncomfortable. ”

She takes a deep breath, then another. She closes her eyes and sees the scene in such vivid detail that she had to open them again and blink the images away. No good. Still there. “You were on the throne and I was sitting on your lap. We were… naked… and doing… you know… But I was facing away from you, looking into the hall with you and the hall was full of people! All those awful nobles from the Winter Palace, all looking at us while we were doing something so private.”

“Were they spying on us or were we putting on a show for them?”

Grace ground her teeth. “I think we wanted them to see. I think we were making them watch us, making them see what we have together.”

“Sounds pretty hot to me.”

“Bull! No! It wasn’t at all! I don’t ever want anyone to see me like that! It was bad enough when _that lot_ \--” she waves toward the keep, indicating Cullen, Josephine and Cassandra “--walked in on us after we’d--! But to have people watching? To _want_ them to watch? Why would I dream _that_?” She makes a disgusted noise and shudders again.

Bull gives her a squeeze. “Just because you dreamt it doesn’t mean you secretly want it. Our minds think of weird shit all the time. Just when we’re awake we’re able to stop that weird shit from making it to the front. But when we’re asleep, it’s like the city gates have been left open but the guards have all gone on holiday.”

That makes sense she supposes. She closes her eyes again and this time when the scene comes back, she moves her mind’s eye from her dream-body to the body of one of the spectators. There's her dream-body, on Bull's lap, and she's looking right at herself--

She sucks in a breath and shakes her head, opening her eyes.

“You okay?” Bull asks.

“Yes, I just--yes, I’m fine.” She shifts, aware of the bloom of wet heat between her legs. And because she is with Bull, and because he understands these sorts of things, she tells him what she had just seen, blushing red hot the whole time.

Bull grins, wicked, his eye twinkling, and Grace’s stomach drops with the familiar mix of excitement and dread that she’d just given him a terribly wonderful idea.

*

After a full day of reading letters and petitions and asking for clarification before signing her name on the replies that had already been written by Josephine and her team of diplomats, Grace plods up the stairs to her chambers. She pauses a couple of times to pat passing cats. She wanders to her couch and flops down, too tired to even undo the laces on her boots. She loosens her scarf instead and stares at the fire.

The fire. It has been lit. There it is, roaring away. Bull must have come by and done it. Grace smiles to herself, her heart thudding hard but not from the exertion of getting up the stairs. Perhaps she’ll have his company tonight, though he could just as easily stay away.

The distinctive _plack-plack_ of a cat scratching at fabric catches her attention. She turns, ready to give a telling off, and sees just what is being scratched. There, beside her bed, is the throne. No, not _the_ throne, but a throne that looks just like the one in the hall, the one Grace so hates sitting on. Only this one is slightly… larger? Not quite as well crafted, a little rough.

A knock at the door and a “Hey, Grace, you in?”

“Hello!” Grace calls.

Bull rounds the stairs and grins. “I see you found my present.” He sits next to Grace, slinging his arm around her shoulder.

“What…” She starts. “Why?” This man can be so baffling. He usually has a reason. Just figuring it out is a trial sometimes.

Bull sets to loosening the band from Grace’s ponytail as he explains. “Remember that dream you had?” Oh, oh dear. That had been _weeks_ ago. Oh no. “Yeah, thought you did. So, I thought we could make it real. Just the part you liked. No audience.” He chuckles. “Well, there _will_ be an audience but I think you’ll like her.” He stands up and holds his hand out for Grace. “Come on, dinner first.”

They eat at her desk. He feeds her his usual dinner of crackers and fruit, a bowl of that cheese dip they’d served at the Winter Palace--light food, enough to fill without being dense. Grace natters about her cats in between bites of apple and orange. She can’t quite put the throne out of her mind, nor the audience Bull has promised. She, he’d said ‘her’, had better not be a cat. No, she wouldn’t be. Bull hated the cats watching. Someone else, then? Couldn’t be a person. He knew how she felt about _that_. So… oh. Oh Maker. Grace glances around, eyes settling where the mirror _should_ have been but now isn’t. No sign of it anywhere. Maker, how had he hidden a full length and very heavy mirror? No mind. She turns her attention back to her orange slices and squirms, pressing her legs together, a frisson of that mixed up pleasure-shame buzzing through her at the thought of looking at herself while she sat--

“You good?” Bull asks.

“Mm hmm.”  
Bull rubs her back and lets out a long contented sigh. “I hear you’ve got judgements coming up.”

Grace’s mood sours. “Don’t remind me.”

“Come on, let’s give you something else to think about while you’re sitting on that throne then.” He stands and holds his hand out, again. She’ll never tire of holding his hand. Grace lets him haul her up. Crumbs fall to the floor but some stubborn bits hang on. She brushes them off, concentrating so she doesn’t have to look at him. Her stomach does that flip flop it always does when Bull signals the start of one of his plans. She blushes, too, she's sure. But Bull kisses the top of her head, laying both hands on her shoulders and she remembers that she doesn't need to be embarrassed.

He leaves her to undress while he shifts the makeshift throne to a more desirable position. As she undresses, she watches as he makes small adjustments, his critical eye picking up details Grace would not have noticed. Once the throne is in place, he smiles and tells Grace to sit down.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She wiggles, self-conscious of her nakedness and the seat her bottom rests on. At least this cushion is more comfortable than the one on the real throne. Bull gives her another kiss, too fleeting, and pads into the nook in the wall behind her bed. A grunt, a scrape, then the mirror comes into view, reflecting Grace’s chambers in a drunken lurch as Bull maneuvers it into the room. He positions it in front of the throne. Grace stares back at herself, wide-eyed, startled at her own vision. She sees herself as she had in her dream. Then her image wobbles away as Bull adjusts the mirror with the same meticulous care as he had the throne, wandering over to peer at it from Grace’s vantage, then back.

Grace is so entranced by her own body that she doesn’t realise that Bull has stopped fussing with the mirror and has undressed. Her view disappears behind a wall of solid grey qunari. Grace looks up from that belly, up his chest, all the way up, and meets his eye.

“You ready to go wild?” Bull asks. He winks and Grace laughs. This is ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. She can’t possibly.

But instead of switching positions, he kneels down. With his hands on her knees, he gently eases her legs apart. He shuffles forward, and slowly, deliberately, without breaking eye contact, lifts one of her legs to rest on his shoulder, then the other. He leaves her open. Open and excited but terribly vulnerable.

“This’ll work best with me in you,” he says. “And for that to work, well, I got to fit in here, right?”

Grace nods, dumbstruck. Oh, Maker, she’s in for it now. “Wh-what should I do?”

Bull grins. “Relax, Inquisitor. Enjoy yourself.”

Grace does as she’s told, wiggling to get comfortable. She preemptively grips the arms of the throne. Then she blows out a breath.

Bull kisses the insides of her thighs. First one, then the other. His hands rest near the tops of her thighs, his arms and her legs entwined.

He works her open, slowly, deliberately. Alternating between tongue and fingers, both at the same time. Stretching her. She doesn’t come but she feels it building. Warm at first, getting hotter. Her whole cunt, heat blooming through her, up to her nipples. She aches to touch them but resists and grips the armrests harder. Steady, steady. She doesn’t look at Bull, doesn’t look at the mirror. She concentrates on breathing, in and out, in and out, knowing that she needs to relax. If Bull is going to enter her, then she needs to be relaxed. His fingers caress and cajole. Two, at least. He needs to fit three. She’s covered in a sheen of sweat. Her grip falters, the armrests too damp now. She reaches behind her, arching her back, and feels for the throne’s sun spikes. Bull groans, low, more of a growl. When she peeks at him, his eye is blown black, face wet. He taps her clit with his fingertip and she cries out, arching even more, then he’s licking, feather light and her cunt is full, full and aching and oh, the ache is bliss. He holds her there, trapped in this bubble of perfect pleasure. She’s his, all his, her body, her mind. She teeters on the edge, wavering, and then she’s stepping back, back, away from release. Bull eases her away from that sweet release with soft strokes and soothing kisses. Her cunt is left empty, so empty and the loss of his fingers, the pleasure, the burn makes her want to cry.

She sags, fingers loose around the sun spikes until she’s barely hanging on. Firm hands on her legs. Warm. She shivers. A kiss to each thigh, the insides of her knees. He lifts one leg, kisses the sole of her foot then plants it on the floor. Oh, the floor. Ground. She’s back here now. Her other foot receives a kiss before it meets the floor, too.

Fingers pry hers from the sun burst, big hands enveloping her own. Then she’s wrapped up in Bull’s arms, his chest warm, his smell inviting. She settles on Bull’s lap--he’s on the throne now. Solid, stable.

“I didn't come,” she mumbles.

“I know. You will though.” His voice floats to her ears.

“Okay.” If Bull says she'll come, then she'll trust that he'll make it happen.

“Turn around, Grace.”

She turns, somehow, bracing against his knees. His hands on her hips, guiding as she turns to face away from him. One foot gets stuck against the throne but Bull works it free. Her other slides into place more easily. They dangle on either side of the throne and she perches, hands pressed into Bull’s thighs, keeping her balanced. Again he guides her back, gentle murmurs, soft encouragement. Her knees slide down the outside of his thighs to meet the cushion of the throne. She’s open again, wide. There's a drip coming on. Her cunt tingles. Something brushes her bottom. A tickle, a--oh. _Oh_. It presses against her open cunt.

“Take your time. I’ve got you.”

She eases onto Bull's cock, grateful for his lavish attention earlier. Even so, her cunt stretches around him, filling her. Maker. She pauses a moment, just to savour the tightness. Her bottom presses against his belly, warm and soft. But she hits a snag, a sudden poke too deep. She wails, shocked, and freezes.

“Hey, Grace, you good?” Bull runs his hands down her back, over her hips. He helps take her weight. Her thighs can almost relax. “Come up, yeah, that's it. Nice and slow. Almost all the way.” He rumbles, low, from his chest. “Back down. As far as you can. Yes, Grace, keep going, just like that.”

She gets lower this time but has to stop again. She knows she can take all of him. She rises, Bull steadying her, encouraging her, kissing her neck, her back. Down. Up. Down. Down. _Down._ Her skin meets his and she laughs. It bubbles out of her, all hiccupy. She relaxes, fully seated on top of Bull. He rubs her shoulders, down her back, hands snaking between her arms to cup her breasts. She gasps, then groans as her body reminds her of what she's sitting on. He massages her breasts, circles her nipples, shifting between feather-light and firm. She trembles, no longer relaxed, no longer able to relax, and digs her fingers into his thighs. But just when his touches threaten to overwhelm, he stops, and lowers his hands from her breasts to her hips.

“Ride me, Grace.”

She adjusts her grip, clamps her thighs around his, and finds her rhythm. Slowly at first, savouring his full, thick length, the slide and slick. He fills her differently from this position, an incessant pressure against her pubis creating an aching pleasure. Her bottom brushes against his belly with every stroke and that creates its own wonderful friction.

Her pace increases, steady, sure. His hands on her hips ground her, guide her. He’s with her, feeling her, too. Knowing that makes her bold. She rises up and this time, instead of sliding down, she lets herself fall, fast, thumping against his thighs when she lands. Her cunt aches around his cock. She does it again. And again. Riding Bull, just like he said.

“Open your eyes, Kadan.”

Only when she opens them does she realise how tightly she'd had them shut. The lamp light is harsh. She blinks, squints, looks up and--

Oh, _Maker_.

There she is, reflected in the mirror. Flushed pink, sweat dappled, hair a disheveled mess. She looks… _gorgeous_. She grins. She grins and steadies her grip and keeps riding Bull, not breaking eye contact with herself, drinking in as much as she can, feeling as much as she can. She's not meek. Not passive. Right now she owns herself, owns her pleasure. No one can take that from her. After one good hard slam, she draws her gaze down her body, breasts full, nipples hard, arms muscled and corded, her belly, folded and burning, right to her open cunt. Her lips split on either side of his cock, clit pink and shiny, peeking out at the top. Bull's cock slides in and out. Mesmerised, she slows right down and just watches it emerge, long and thick and veiny as she rises. The head tugs at her entrance but she won't let it escape. She eases back down, subsuming it, claiming it, taking it all until she's fully seated and then only Bull's fuzzy balls are left to view.

“I want to come.” This is a decision she's made. It's one she has the power to make happen. Bull cups one breast, nestling the nipple between his fingers. He draws his other hand down her body, through her pubic hair, obscuring her view. “I want to see.” He obliges, twisting his wrist so she can see the moment his fingertip touches her clit.

The touch is electric. Every nerve catches fire, every hair stands on end. She’s right there, _right there_. He rubs her clit, softly, slowly, and roles her nipple between his fingers. This is it. This is when she loses control. She cries Bull's name, digs her fingers into his thighs and arches her back. Her whole body jerks, his cock anchoring her while applying its own aching pressure.

She watches herself explode. Her hip spasms. Her belly clenches. Her mouth curls, at least until she grits her teeth and she grins. Inside, sparks fly from her clit to her nipples. Her cunt pulses around Bull, squeezing him, and she's dimly aware of another pulsing deep inside her. The waves crash and subside with Bull's slowing strokes, allowing Grace the luxury of taking a long, measured breath.

Behind her, Bull sighs. He removes his hands, carefully, but even then she spasms again.

For a moment, they stare at each other in the mirror. Bull doesn't look nearly as disheveled as Grace. How unfair. Fatigue hits her suddenly. She needs to sit, rest, flop. But Bull doesn't let her. She realises why: a warm, wet dribble leaks out, oozing into her hair.

“This way.” Bull wraps his arm around her and leans, reaching for a hankie at the foot of the throne. “Don't worry, it's clean.” He holds it against her as she lifts up, Bull's cock slipping and bobbing, still half hard. In an awkward twist that’s all elbows and knees, she turns to sit across Bull’s lap, one hand clamping the hankie in place until she can shut her legs.

Bull wraps her in his arms, holds her tight. He kisses her hair. She catches one more glimpse of herself in the mirror and smiles.

*

Grace sits on the throne of the great hall, back straight, feet planted firmly on the dias. Her uniform is crisp and smart. A cat sleeps on her lap. She surveys her audience. Roughly dressed refugees mingle with plain but smart Fereldens. And there, huddled together near one of the braziers, is a knot of Orlesians, all dressed in their finery. Grace’s benign smile turns into a grin. She looks each of them in the eye and relaxes, slumping slightly, knees parting, affecting an air of breezy nonchalance.

She turns to Josephine. “Shall we begin?”

Josephine startles. “Of course, Inquisitor. On your word.”

As Josephine reads out the first petition, Grace gazes over the crowd again.

There, at the back, are the tips of two horns and the memory of her reflection in a mirror.


End file.
